


Sherlock Observes

by Tammany



Series: Mycroft's Vulnerable [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brothers, Brothers, Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Little Brothers, M/M, Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 21:26:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is definitely a gen story, except to the degree that it hints at a M/M relationship between Mycroft and Lestrade. This is Sherlock just beginning to catch on. It's clean, it's non-erotic, and it's the fifth story in the "Mycroft's Vulnerable" series. Sherlock is left with a lot to think about. Being Sherlock, he's awfully likely to just delete it, though, as it's far too emotionally demanding to process it all. XD That's our boy....</p><p>A certain limited amount of preexisting gore in the form of a corpse is present. It's not nice, but not all that much worse than maggots in the eye, so I think it's probably canon-normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Observes

 

The corpse, Sherlock thought with ill-concealed glee, was downright fascinating. The case? Brilliant—and if Sherlock were honest, he meant “brilliant” not just in the sense of intellectually superb, radiant with genius, but in the far less glorified way a fangirl meant when she squealed that her favorite star was “Brilliant!” He felt like running around the crime scene asking people if it were already Christmas, or if his birthday had somehow come early. What a treat!

Locked room—very well locked, as this was a Met safe-house used to protect witnesses in upcoming trials. In this case, the trial was of a former member of Parliament accused of having accepted bribes from multiple sources. The witness was apparently dead instantly from a tiny but powerful explosion that appeared to be centered in the middle of his skull, as though his very brains had been turned into plastic explosive. No sign of any way to detonate the explosive, though, and no actual sign that there had been plastic explosive.

Oh, lovely, lovely, lovely! All right, the case had half the Met’s witness management team scowling like thunder. It had Lestrade frowning, too, and talking quietly into his mobile, looking harried. Donovan was pouting to one side, along with the new forensics officer, whose skills were sufficiently mediocre that Sherlock hadn’t yet bothered to learn the woman’s name.

So what? Sherlock was used to a hostile work environment, and if life didn’t supply one automatically, he quickly set about remedying the lack. For that matter, even if he did get a hostile work environment, he quickly set about increasing the hostility. Anything else was boooooooring.

He squatted by the remains of the corpse’s head. The visual was fascinating—rather like a burst watermelon from YouTube, only the red was a lot more red, the glop seemed a lot stickier, and there were intriguing bits of bone embedded in everything. Amazing. He’d have to do some experiments at Baker Street, if he could convince Molly to provide him with some more heads. After that it would just be a matter of either buying explosives illegally or making some himself in the lab…

“John? Come look and tell me what you think of this. It really does look like he’s been exploded from the inside out!”

John, grimacing already without even having really looked, approached, and squatted at the other side of the body. “Mmmmm.”

“Not useful, John. Even I can’t deduce much meaning from ‘Mmmmm.’ Come come, don’t lose your focus now: we’ve barely started!”

John looked more closely, wincing as he did so. “Not much here to go from. It’s pretty much all mush, now.” He shook his head. “But, yeah. Not that different from what I’d expect of an exploding bullet, or similar.”

“But there’s no sign of a gun. Nothing in the room, no perforation of the windows or wall…”

John shrugged, and leaned back, crossing his arms and bracing them on his knees. “Don’t look at me. You’re the genius detective. I’m just saying—it matches your premise. Internal explosion.” He stood, then, and took a step back, clearly just as happy to put a little distance between himself and the gore.

Sherlock was less squeamish—indeed, “squeamish” barely held a place in his personal dictionary. He studied what was left of the skull.

The majority of the damage had occurred in the upper region of the brain case, and the charge had exploded out and back, taking out the top, back, and brain stem. The forehead and face had received some damage, but the jaw and tongue were in modestly intact condition, spared the brunt of the explosion.

“Directed force,” Sherlock muttered. “Shaped charge?” He was just leaning over to examine the jaw more closely, when there was what is commonly referred to in newspapers as a “disturbance.” Down the corridor beyond the room came a crashing and shouting, and the stomp of heavy feet storming down the hall. The door of the room swung open with a crash, banging into the framing wall, as uniformed and heavily armed forces swept in, separating like the Red Sea before Moses. As the soldiers stood braced, weapons covering the already assembled investigative crews, a man in an elegant suit minced in, passing between the ranks of his minions like an irritated Siamese cat attempting to shame its owners into submission. He looked around the room in distaste, and wrinkled his nose.

“Entirely outrageous.” He scowled at Sherlock, then. “You—get away from the body. Now.” Then he spared a glance for all the rest of the team. “You’ll be evacuating this sight immediately. Upon leaving the room you’ll be required to sign paperwork specifically declaring this investigation subject to the National Secrets Act. You will be expected to maintain complete silence on all facts pertaining to this tragedy.”

John, still close to Sherlock, murmured, “Who-he?”

Sherlock frowned. “No idea. This is usually Mycroft’s gig—though I will say Mycroft manages it with much more panache.”

“Matter of taste, maybe?” John quipped, looking grim. “He’s got the ‘steel-toed jack-boots’ vibe down cold, if that’s your kink.’”

The intruder narrowed his eyes, studying Sherlock. “I told you to back away.”

Sherlock cocked his head in dry amusement, and eased himself up, long legs unfolding like sections of an extending crane.  “And you are?”

“A person of significance. Greater significance than I intend to go into here and now. I think my forces, however, speak for me: I’m someone you want to listen to.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock thought, considering how different an answer that was from Mycroft’s reliable claim to be no more than a minor member of the British government. He studied the man, noting details…

Suit: Savile Row—Mycroft could no doubt identify the tailor immediately, but even Sherlock could see the man had pushed the styling just over the limits of good taste. Mycroft himself often rode the line, being a bit of a dandy, but this man crossed it. Silk socks with knitted clocks. Italian shoes of extreme style, with a pointed toe beyond even Sherlock’s preferences—and Sherlock liked a nattier, sharper toe than Mycroft did. Not that Mycroft would wear Italian shoes: he’d back a good English shoemaker over Italian ready-made any day. No umbrella—but that Burberry, worn tossed carelessly over his shoulders like an opera cape? And the sleek, slicked-down blond hair, parted neatly and combed back in a rippling wave from the high forehead? What did the man think he was, a government official or a camp Hollywood director from the 30s? The swank was so thick you could spread it on your morning toast instead of marmalade.

The man was studying Sherlock just as Sherlock studied him. “So. You’re Mycroft Holmes’ Achilles Heel.”

“Merely the family black sheep,” Sherlock demurred. “My brother’s long since opted for evasion over loyalty—I return so little of the later myself. Mycroft’s stalwart, but he has priorities, after all.”

“I thought you’d be taller, somehow.”

“No. Mycroft’s the greater—in this as in all else,” Sherlock snipped back. “I achieve the effect through smoke and mirrors. Mycroft just looms naturally. One of his lesser talents, but no less irritating for all that.”

The man snorted. “A landmark figure, your brother. I’m sure he’ll be remembered. Now—one more time, before I give the order to fire: step back.”

Sherlock sighed. “You can hardly risk telling your people to shoot me when I’m surrounded by innocent civilians. Half of them will be killed or injured and the other half will be witness to the event. Do make at least half an effort: basic rules. Keep your threats plausible. Better yet, don’t make threats. Just smile sweetly and let your enemies come up with their own ideas what you’ll do to them if they don’t play along.”

“And I’m to take your advice why? No—don’t tell me. Because I’m to follow the advice of a rogue wild-card with a penchant for public buffoonery and private—very private—criminal activity?”

Sherlock glowered at him. “Much you’d know about it.”

“More than you might think. For example, I am quite sure there’s a good—a very good—reason you’ve not been called in to consult on the recent death of Charles Augustus Magnussen.” The man smirked, and stroked a lapel. “Such a tragic death. Spree killing, yes? Some lone madman, of course. Random drug-crazed junkie, I suspect.” His eyes glittered. “Dregs of society, that sort. The sort of man who’d end up dead in an unexpected face-off with special forces, with innocent civilians caught in the crossfire.”

Sherlock felt the hair rise on the nape of his neck, a slow prickle of fear taking him. “Good heavens, you do aspire to be a proper Bond villain, don’t you,” he said, softly, already trying to determine what this man wanted—and intended.

“Not at all,” the man smiled. “Allergic to white cats, and no interest in world domination. That’s your brother’s ambition. Or was. A shame he was related to you.”

“You’re planning to use me against Mycroft?” Sherlock snorted. “Better people than you have tried.”

“Oh, better people than I have succeeded. I’m just—following up on previous victories.” The man sidled further into the room, and glanced around. “Actually, this ought to consolidate all the gains made in prior battles and complete the war. With one move I can take out a rogue enemy of the state—destroying what remains of your brother’s fragile power and more fragile emotional stability—and eliminate your strongest supporters. Well, barring those foolish fans. What will they say this time, I wonder? ‘Sherlock died and lived and died again?’ No. Clumsy phrasing. I’m sure they’ll come up with something short and snappy for the T-shirt, though.”

Sherlock frowned. “Your evaluation of my brother’s political and personal standing seems…uniformed,” he said.

“On the contrary—your information, of course, is somewhat restricted. Your brother so hates to let you deal with the consequences of your own actions, doesn’t he? Such a sheltered life you lead. A trip to Eastern Europe rather than public trial or private execution. A fast return on the slightest pretext. And, of course, always protected from the damages you do to Mycroft. For which, by the way, many of us owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Sherlock drew in his breath, beginning to feel the situation sliding out of his control. He hadn’t heard from Mycroft in over a week—not since the fast meeting in which he’d been granted a hasty parole regarding Charles Augustus Magnussen’s death by a clearly frantic star chamber of Cabinet Ministers and career diplomats determined to put him on the hunt for Moriarty—a project which might have led here…

But which might not have.

Meanwhile, though, Sherlock was dealing with Anthea, Mycroft’s ever-efficient right hand. He’d not spoken to Mycroft.

He’d been relieved. Terribly relieved. The few things they’d managed to say prior to Sherlock’s soon-terminated exile to Eastern Europe had been brief, agonized, and nearly empty of any content but the bare bones of the decisions made regarding Sherlock’s fate. It was the unsaid things that had provided the actual agony.

Sherlock had somehow assumed the majority of the agony had been on his side. Embarrassment. Shame. Rage. Humiliation. Mycroft’s face had been so still, so damned disappointed. Even his attempt at compassion—his regretful comment that he should not have brought his laptop near Sherlock, and that it was clearly his own failing that had led to the disaster—only rubbed in the obvious: that Sherlock had failed once again.

It always made Sherlock want to wring Mycroft’s neck—strangle him. That arrogant claiming of blame, as though Sherlock couldn’t even make his own mistakes, he could only be tripped up by his big brother’s bigger mistakes. It was so obviously manipulative: it had to be. Only an idiot would accept blame that wasn’t his, and Mycroft wasn’t an idiot. Right?

He frowned. Mycroft was always so sober and sad about it. Penitent.

It was all much easier when Sherlock blamed him. That was easy. He’d done it most of his life. “Mycroft said it.” “Mycroft did it.” “It was Mycroft’s fault, Mummy, he was talking to that woman at the kiosk and forgot to watch out for me.” “They’re Mycoft’s cigarettes, Mummy.” It was more confusing when Mycroft swallowed the blame down whole all on his own, like a sick man dry-swallowing aspirin. Yet—he so often did swallow down the blame, just as he had over Bond Air.

Which was so _irritating._ Bad enough to be emotionally seduced, for God’s sake. The least Mycroft could have done would have been to let him cop to his own seduction. Given Mycroft’s preferences, it was really quite pushy of him to take the blame for Irene Adler’s seduction of Sherlock... it came out either painfully self-sacrificial, or faintly incestuous, depending on how you tried to sort the blame out.

But Mycroft was good at swallowing blame. Quite experienced, and entirely too willing to accept responsibility for everything from terrorist attacks to bad traffic jams. He was used to it. That would hardly have stopped it.

He looked at the man in the over-the-top suit. “You’re gaming me.”

The man looked back, and a smile bloomed. “You don’t know. You really don’t know, do you?”

Sherlock snorted. “Nothing to know. Believe me, I’d hear if Mycroft were in any trouble. Mummy would never let me forget it.”

Which, he thought restlessly, wasn’t true. Mummy would be too busy fussing at Mycroft for having gotten himself in a mess, and ordering him to make sure Sherlock was well out of it… “Don’t let your baby brother get involved, Mikey. I’ll be simply draconic if you do.”

The man, meanwhile, glowed. “He had a nervous breakdown the day of your brief and ill-fated flight to Europe. Dropped off the charts, cancelled everything on his schedule his PA couldn’t pass off to subordinates, and he’s not been heard of since. Beyond rumors from a very reliable source that he’s seeking therapy.” He chuckled. “Did he ever say you’d drive him crazy, boy? Because it looks like you finally managed it.”

The world seemed to drop a foot, like a jolting lift. Sherlock’s stomach dropped with it. _…not been heard of since…_ He reviewed again, knowing perfectly well there wasn’t any point. Then he reviewed every nuance of his interactions with Mycroft’s right hand. She’d been annoyed with him. Seriously annoyed. But…she was always seriously annoyed with him, wasn’t she? And she’d been shielding Mycroft from him, but again…

Or had she just been unable to connect him to Mycroft?

Was it true?

Behind him he heard someone stir, then Lestrade’s firm, gruff voice. “ _Bollocks._ ”

The man’s attention shifted from Sherlock. “Excuse me?”

“I said, _bollocks_. Mycroft Holmes is a righteous pain in the arse. And I daresay he’s busy as ever—the world doesn’t stop just because Sherlock Bloody Holmes has put his foot in it again somehow. But he’s far from gone…or my voicemail lies.” Sherlock heard Lestrade’s footsteps moving forward, till he stood next to Sherlock. He held out his cellphone, screen on. “You doubt me, you can look, mate. Man’s been pushing my buttons all morning.”

Sherlock shot Lestrade an evil look. Yes, it was a relief to know Mycroft was in touch with someone—but less of a relief to hear Mycroft was riding Lestrade to keep watch over Baby Brother. Sherlock much preferred to be allowed to at least pretend Lestrade wasn’t his MI5 handler—or baby minder, it sometimes seemed. Lestrade ignored him, keeping his attention on the intruder and his people.

The man wavered, clearly wanting to come inspect the phone, clearly reluctant to put himself at risk. Finally he glanced to one of his minions, and said, “Get the phone.” The man adjusted his grip on his weapon and eased out into the room, approaching Lestrade. He reached out, and took the phone, before nearly scuttling back outside the range of a snatching arm or a fast-kicking foot. He handed the phone to the man in the bad suit, who glanced at the screen, then flipped and scrolled through a number of others.

“This could be from anyone,” he said.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew Mycroft’s number,” Lestrade replied. “I take it you don’t?” He managed to say it in a way that implied that if Mr. Bad Suit didn’t know Mycroft’s actual number, he probably wasn’t important enough to pull off whatever coup he was in the midst of attempting.

Which, Sherlock thought, was actually a pretty good assessment. One had to be at a certain level of power to benefit properly from coups. Either that or the government had to fall—the entire edifice, not just one man, be he ever so important.

The man frowned at the screen. “If this is really Holmes, I can call him back, can’t I?”

Lestrade smirked. “You can try. Don’t know if he’ll want to talk to you, though.”

“If he cares about his brother—and about you—he will,” he said. Then frowned. “Who are you?”

“Ask Sherlock,” Lestrade said, then, with a cocky grin, added, “O’ course, he gets the name wrong more times than not. But, hey— _Sherlock_. Can’t be arsed to make the effort, can ‘e?” His voice was a blend of true amusement and equally true anger.

Sherlock flicked a glance over. Lestrade was planted solidly next to him, eyes sharp and challenging, arms crossed over his chest. Sherlock had to admit, Lestrade could do Noble English Oak Tree like no one else he knew. Well…maybe John, though John was more like a tough little Glastonbury thorn. The man had the look of having drawn some kind of line in the sand, saying, “Make me…” Or…no. “I dare you.” That was it.

He looked at the man in the really very atrocious suit. The man glared at Lestrade, then, with toxic annoyance, pushed the autodial button, and put the phone to his ear.

Down the hall a phone rang. Once. A voice—a blessedly familiar voice—said, “I believe you’ve wasted a call, Gervais,” as Mycroft, backed by his PA and one other officer, stepped in.

The man in the bad suit—which looked much worse when compared to Mycroft’s best pinstripe Word-Warrior Suit—blanched. Mycroft stepped forward and gingerly removed Lestrade’s phone, glancing at it and ending the call. He tossed the phone across the room to Lestrade, who caught it out of the air with a grin, and pocketed it in one smooth action.

All activity ceased, then for a moment.

The hiatus gave Sherlock time to study his brother. He didn’t like what he saw…or… No. He saw too many things, and he needed to consider.

Mycroft was definitely less fit than when Sherlock had last seen him a week before. He had lost weight, but most of all he seemed spent and wan. His emotionless façade of smirking control was up, but somehow less certain than Sherlock was used to. His eyes were tired; his mouth set in a sadder line. And yet, there’d been something almost jaunty in the flip of the phone to Lestrade, and there was no sign of uncertainty in his attitude toward Bad Suit Guy—Gervais? What a name… and people thought “Sherlock” and “Mycroft” were bad!

Mycroft paced out into the room, coming to stand between Sherlock and Gervais. His eyes met Sherlock’s with the old Big Brother certainty: I’m here. I’m on point. Don’t worry. He lifted his chin a fraction. One corner of his mouth tipped up. Then he glanced over to Lestrade, and gave a nod so small it was almost a phantom.

Lestrade shifted, still solid as oak—but now an oak tree ready to turn Ent and stride, if called to.

Further to the side, John began a wary sidle toward the center of the room, easing toward Lestrade and Sherlock. Donovan began a similar slow drift.

“Eh-eh-eh. You forgot to bring the guns, Holmes,” Gervaise said. He gave a coughing laugh. “It would appear that your mental state has been shaken after all. Whatever were you thinking to come without your own forces?”

Mycroft didn’t even bother turning, saying simply, “I was thinking that I never bring a weapon that can’t be aimed to a surgical strike, Gervais. Power has far less to do with blast-radius than with precise targeting. One doesn’t choose a sledgehammer to perform brain surgery.  Though in your case, it’s more like removing a plantar wart…” Then he looked at the uniformed special forces flanking them to either side. He took an envelope from one pocket, and simply walked across the space to hand it to what appeared to be the ranking officer. “From the Minister of Defense. I think it will cover everything you need to know. You can use my phone to confirm, if you need to—or my PA’s phone. She’s even better than I am at getting through, if you let her manage it for you.”

The woman put up her weapon and opened the envelope, scanning through the neat print. She sighed, and said, “Stand down, people. I’ll check it, like the man says. But it looks like we got conscripted for the wrong man’s army, today.”

Mycroft turned toward Gervais, at an angle that left his smug smirk clear to Sherlock. “See? My paperwork trumps your combat boots. Check and mate.” He looked over his shoulder to Lestrade. “And I think your people might best collect him? I think you’ll find he’s responsible for the death of your witness, among other things.”

Lestrade grinned. “What a coincidence.” He turned to Donovan. “Sally, take care of it?”

She grunted agreement, and began to move forward.

Gervais, then, broke—but not in surrender. Grabbing holstered hand gun from the hip of one of the uniformed special forces agents, he swept into the room, headed straight for Mycroft.

Before he could reach him, Sherlock, Lestrade, and John had all arrowed inward, Sally only a few feet behind—and only because she’d already been in an off-position to the rear. Mycroft, meanwhile, moved—a near dancing spin that put him out of grabbing-reach of Gervais.

The special forces people were back on alert, this time ready to take down their former “commander.” Sherlock knew, though, that it was hopeless: Gervais had pulled far enough into the room to put everyone in the line of fire—all the civilian forces; Mycroft; Lestrade and his people; Sherlock and John. Any gunplay put them all at risk.

“Hold,” Mycroft called, voice more even than seemed reasonable even to Sherlock. He looked at Gervais. “Now you’re just being stupid.”

“Not stupid if I get a hostage,” Gervais sniped back at him. “One hostage. I’ve got a car waiting for me. I was prepared, in case this went wrong.”

“What is it with hostages,” Mycroft grumbled, in his most irked tones—tones that reminded Sherlock of his brother as a harried teen babysitting a too-active and far too mischievous little brother. “You’d think a hostage made everything _better_ , when the exact opposite is true. Good heavens, man, which of us do you want to attempt to control in the midst of this little debacle? Me? No, I assure you, that would be a fool’s move. My dear brother? Worse—he’s quite the loose cannon, sure to throw even the best laid plans into chaos. His friend, Dr. Watson? Granted, he’s a bit less likely to manage to steal back control—but he’ll keep you so busy maintaining that control you might as well have one of us. He’s not exactly a soft target. As for Lestrade and his people? Tsk. The last thing any sane man does is take a Met policeman hostage… it ruffles feathers on all the wrong sorts of birds.”

As he spoke, Mycroft was calmly, slowly strolling clockwise, along the line of the special forces people. Even as he did so, Lestrade slipped the other way, tracking to gain a point opposite Mycroft, but behind Gervais. Each step Mycroft took drew Gervais’ gaze, and forced the man to turn, gun in hand. Each step turned, Lestrade slipped further out of his line of sight, working backward. If Mycroft’s movements were lazy and confident and civilized, Lestrade’s were pure hunter.

Sherlock licked his lips, relieved to see the special forces people maintaining calm expressions, fighting not to give away Lestrade’s cautious stalk to his prey. Mycroft appeared entirely oblivious to what had to be directly in his line of vision, entirely focused on Gervais. He smiled a nearly merry smile at the man.

“I really have no idea what this was all about in the first place, Gerry. Such a waste of energy. So much leg work for so little probable benefit. It’s not as though you were ever going to move into a key position as a result of this. Who set you to it? Fanchon?” He paused, apparently reading Gervais’ face, then said, “No. Then Sidlow. I’ll have to have a word with the Minister about Sidlow.” He shook his head, and said, “It’s a shame, really. At the very least, if you’d talked to me first I could have told you the suit was too much. It always seems a tragedy for a man to commit treason wearing a bad suit…”

And as he said it, Lestrade lunged, one hand sliding up to pin Gervais’ gun-hand to the floor as the two men crashed in a brutal tackle. Donovan and John were on him a second later, helping Lestrade secure him.

Mycroft, looking, went almost limp. Sherlock spotting it, found himself frantically looking for a chair, dragging it to his brother, who dropped into it with an unprecedented look of gratitude.

“Thank you, Sherlock. Much appreciated.”

Behind Sherlock was the hum of communication, as Lestrade gave orders for how Sally was to handle the arrest. Sherlock himself, though, was more concerned with his brother. “He said you’d had a breakdown.”

Mycroft didn’t meet his eyes, saying primly, “Well, I won’t say it hasn’t been a bad week, but…”

Behind him Lestrade’s voice gave a small chuff, half-grumble, half-laughter. “Understatement, Holmes,” he said. Apparently finished with his sorting of the arrest, he strolled over, joining the two brothers. He moved to occupy a position at an angle to Mycroft’s shoulder—slightly behind, if you didn’t count the three-quarter turn that let the two men see each other. “Calling it a bad week’s a bit like calling a nuclear strike a ‘bit of a dust-up.’”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, mouth pouting for one brief second. “Somewhat stressful, perhaps?”

“Nnnnno. Not unless World War II was a ‘fracas.’”

“You’re being quite difficult, DI Lestrade.”

“Tell me about it, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock frowned, trying to sort what he was seeing. It wasn’t actually all that easy. Mycroft was prim, upright, calm as ever, barely deigning to look at Lestrade. Lestrade, similarly, appeared to be in full professional mode. Their words, though, seemed—at odds with that? More like Sherlock and John, actually…

Banter?

Good God. Banter? Mycroft bantering? With anyone but Sherlock?

And then a series of observations made throughout cascaded through Sherlock’s awareness.

Lestrade on the phone, murmuring: his voice comfortable, though still businesslike. Friendly. Sherlock had assumed he was in touch with someone at the Met—someone he liked and had worked with before. Only that call had been from Mycroft, judging by the follow-up with Gervais. And there was Mycroft’s easy, jaunty phone-flip to Lestrade. And the glance his way. And their shared hunt of Gervais—Mycroft serving as the perfect distraction, holding Gervais’ attention, Lestrade coordinating with him, the two working like a pair of wolves well-accustomed to sharing the hunt. And now Lestrade’s position…

If John stood at Sherlock’s shoulder like that, or Sherlock stood at John’s, it would be protective. But if John or Sherlock kept up the still façade Mycroft was managing, it would also be defensive, sparing Lestrade too obvious a role, drawing attention to him in Sally’s eyes or anyone else’s.

Well…anyone who didn’t know either of them so well.

“And we still don’t know bugger-all about the dead witness,” Sally grumbled, as she nodded for two lesser officers to take Gervais away. She sighed and set her hands on her hips, scowling. “Why is it never easy once a Holmes gets here? Much less two?”

Mycroft smiled, all diplomacy. “An unfortunate state of affairs, I agree. If you and DI Lestrade will allow me?” He stood.

Sherlock noted Lestrade’s automatic adjustment. Once aware of the dynamic, it screamed, “I have his back—harm him at your own risk.” Mycroft, though, was radiating a similar message to Sally, his body language suggesting that she would be allowed no complaints—about Holmeses, certainly, but also about the commanding DI who let Holmeses traipse around crime-sites.

He stepped gingerly toward the body, grimacing at the blood-spatter and brain fragments slowly turning leathery in the dry, central-heated air of the safe-house. “I believe this was formerly one Archibald Singh, until recently an aide working in the offices of Benjamin Cogg, MP?”

“Yeah, ‘at’s ‘im,” Sally agreed, warily.

“Mmm-hmmm.” Mycroft hunched low. He looked toward Sherlock. “Would I be correct in assuming you are carrying a pen?”

Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft gave him an exasperated look. “Might I borrow it? Please?”

Sherlock fished in the inner pocket of his jacket, then handed his pen down. Myroft probed delicately at the remains of the jaw, drawing the tip cautiously along bone and through flesh that looked like it had been through a food processor. After a second he drew up a hair-fine thread. “Dr. Watson, if you’d be so kind?”

John shouldered his way through the group huddled around the victim. “Whassat?” he asked, frowning.

“Before I answer, will you confirm it’s not a normal thing to find in the jaw-hinge of a human being?

John shook his head. “Looks like synthetic of some sort.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft traced an imaginary line from the jaw-hinge to the lower jaw. “If this is what I believe, it’s the remains of a complex tracking and receiving unit. The primary components would have been housed in the jawbone. This thread, however, would have run through the lower portion of the skull up into the divide between the halves of the brain, to a small explosive and detonator. Consider it ‘insurance’ of a sort. Much as spies once used cyanide pills. The explosive could be triggered by the operative—but, in this case, it could also be triggered by a long-distance signal providing the agent’s, er, ‘password.’”

Lestrade made a deep, bear-like growling noise. “We do this?” The “we” quite obviously suggested all of Great Britain.

Mycroft shook his head. “No. Not sure who used it, but my suspicions are on the late, unlamented James Moriarty’s people. Who seem, for better or worse, to be on the move again, as the recent television broadcast would suggest. Exploding people’s brains seems very much Moriarty’s idea of an entertaining way to secure his own secrets.”

“What’s it go to do with that beggar we just arrested?” Sally asked.

“If I’m not mistaken, Gervais Hechter is the man who sent the signal for the detonator. I’m still not sure whether it was to protect information regarding his own dealings with Moriarty, or if it was part of a broader issue. I can say, however, that he wished to retrieve the remains before Sherlock, or anyone else, had a chance to discover the remains of the detonator and explosive.” He sighed, then, and seemed to droop a bit. “One more thing to try to determine. And no way now to discover whether Moriarty’s people had contact with MP Cogg, either.” He blinked slowly, gathered himself, rose, and handed the now gooey pen toward Sherlock.

Sherlock accepted without pause, cleaning the pen off without a second thought—then looked grumpily at Mycroft. “You have your own pen. Why did you want mine?”

“Because mine’s a fifty-year-old specially commissioned Montblanc pen with an etched gold nib and a rather delicate mother of pearl case, which was given to me as a memento by the late Lord Montbatten, whereas I was quite sure you’d be carrying a common biro worth under two pounds, brother-mine. My reasoning should be obvious.”

“Clear as day,” Sherlock grumbled, catching John’s eye and making a face, causing John to chuckle. “God forbid you get your hands dirty. Or your mother-of-pearl Montblanc pen.” He stuck his nose in the air, and mimed Mycroft in full snooty mode to John, who grinned. He shot a sly glance to his brother. “Quite the delicate flower, you, eh, blud? Breakdown!” He snorted. “Bit much.” He turned to go, only to find himself facing Lestrade, who’d moved almost silently into his path. The older man met his eyes with a long, calm, inscrutable gaze, dark eyes quietly challenging, though Sherlock wasn’t sure what the challenge indicated. He frowned at the Detective Inspector.

“Been a bad week,” Lestrade said. “And that’s understatement, like I said.” His voice was a warning, that reminded Sherlock uneasily of unexpected “drugs raids” and rare moments when Lestrade said “no” in a voice that meant “get off my crime site or suffer consequences beyond your wildest dreams.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Mycroft thrives on this sort of thing,” he shot back.

Lestrade didn’t say a thing. Instead he shot a quick, flickering glance over Sherlock’s shoulder to his brother and back, as though suggesting Sherlock look himself.

Sherlock scowled, refusing to turn. Not that it helped: he’d already seen—already reviewed. Memory supplied even more detail, now that the process had begun. He could call back the shocky look in Mycroft’s eyes after Sherlock had been taken into custody the night of Magnussen’s death. The too-intense calm as he’d told Sherlock of the star chamber’s decision to send him on the mission to Eastern Europe—the one Mycroft had once wanted him to decline. Sherlock had chosen to assume Mycroft now wanted him to take the mission specifically because of the sure-death aspect: it was a neat way of getting rid of a problematic little brother, wasn’t it? It allowed Mycroft to keep his hands clean, just like his Montblanc pen.

Only Sherlock, considering, had to concede Mycroft hadn’t shown any satisfaction in the posting. He’d been like a stone. Like ice. As though he’d died himself that night, and now continued on uncaring.

As though his heart had broken.

Sherlock licked his lips, frowned, jutted his jaw, avoided that steady gaze. “You’re getting sentimental.”

“Always have been.”

“Not about Mycroft.”

Lestrade said, simply, “I appear to have a soft spot where Holmeses are concerned, yeah?”

“Leave him be, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped. “Good heavens, he’s got his own job to do. Here—come see me to the car. I’ll give you and John a lift home.” He appeared to catch Lestrade’s eye, and gave a quick little nod.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He could see it still—the dance as they’d hunted Gervais. The shifts to protect each other. He could hear their bantering exchange. He stalked silently toward his brother, leaving Lestrade behind, and hissed under his breath, “Goldfish!”

Mycroft turned suddenly, instantly crimson, then his head came up, and his eyes burned. Just as quietly, he said, “Friend.”

Sherlock smirked. “Good friend.”

Mycroft considered, then, in a voice dry and calm and cool, said, “The best. Now, if you want a ride back you’d best step up, little brother, because I have no intention of dawdling.” And he swept out of the room, dignity in navy-blue pinstripe.

Sherlock blinked, then risked a glance at Lestrade. The DI almost didn’t respond. Almost. One brow flicked up, and for a fraction of a second laughter glowed in his eyes. Then he was off, busying himself with Sally and the remains of his detail.

Sherlock shook his head, completely gobsmacked. He considered taking it up with John—and then heard John saying, in his common-sense way, “Mycroft and Lestrade are friends? Lovers, maybe? Well, good on ‘em. It’s all good, ennit?” and then asking how they were getting home.

Sherlock decided they were getting home by taxi, and to hell with Mycroft’s silent black limo. If they went in the limo, the silences were going to be shouting the entire way to Baker Street, and he was not at all sure he wanted to hear what they’d shout—about his brother’s vulnerability, his strength, his love for Sherlock, or about his brand new goldfish.


End file.
